


Church Ain't Out 'Til They Quit Swinging

by xsnarksthespot



Series: 4 Times They Faked a Fight and the One Time It Was Real [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: But the beginnings of Portamis because I'm so incredibly biased, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Idiots, M/M, Mostly Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:44:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos pretends he's wasted and the boys fake a fight to stall a wedding.</p><p>
  <i>“I know,” Porthos whispers, in the way drunken people whisper, which really isn’t a whisper so much as a breathy shout. “S’why I was singing a love song, you idiot. Now shhhhhh, lemmie finish, alright.” He straightens and sloppily pats a big, gloved hand over Aramis’ face, which forces his friend to school his expression into insulted chagrin when really all he wants to do is laugh at Porthos’ gall.</i>
</p><p>[The first in a series that will each have a different Musketeer's POV, until the last piece when they'll all get a say. This one is Aramis. Which means it's showy and slightly ridiculous. Sorry?]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Church Ain't Out 'Til They Quit Swinging

“That is, without a doubt, the stupidest idea to come out of your mouth yet.”

They’ve been tossing around suggestions for awhile now and Athos is making the Face. Someone might say...‘the face he always makes?’’ But Aramis knows the subtle distinctions between the dozens of faces Athos makes on a daily basis like he knows every intricate design carved into his favourite pistol. There’s the _'were you dropped on your head a lot as an infant'_ stare. And the _'I swear on all that is holy, if you don’t shut up, I will smother you in your sleep'_ glare. Aramis is rather fond of the _'I want to laugh, but...how’s that go again'_ smirk and tries to inspire it as often as possible. 

Which generally leads back to the _'I swear on all that is holy, if you don’t shut up, I will smother you in your sleep'_ glare, but that’s besides the point.

The Face he’s making now is one they rarely have to put in much effort to receive. It’s the _'one day, you’ll be the death of me -- but at least I'll never die of boredom'_ sigh. Porthos sends a knowing smirk over to Aramis and receives a similar one in return. They don’t even need the next words out of Athos’ mouth, but out they come, all the same.

“Fine.” A beat passes. “But I’m not playing the drunkard.”

Barely stifled snickering ensues and the _'I hate everything'_ frown makes an appearance.

\-----

Porthos ends up playing the drunkard, and with relish at that. He’s ideally suited anyway, since his size makes the average person nervous even when he’s sober. 

The idea is simple: stall a wedding without being obvious about the fact that they’re stalling a wedding. It’s Aramis’ fault, you see. He’s befriended a tailor’s daughter - _just befriended_ , he insists against skeptical looks from his _insultingly suspicious_ brothers-in-arms. In doing so, the woman confided her marriage had been arranged to a miserable little merchant suspected of beating the wives of three fellow traders in order to coerce the men into selling his ill-gotten goods. She doesn’t know this, of course, but Aramis does. He’s heard the name and the Musketeers have already been collecting evidence to arrest the vile bastard.

Eventually, they succeed. But, timing being the cruel mistress that it is, the wedding is already starting as they’re waiting for word back from Treville. This naturally leads to three grown men plotting outside a church like mischievous teenagers. They can’t just storm in. If they don’t get the go ahead, they’ll be punished for slandering a wealthy merchant who is devious enough to have befriended the Cardinal. As it is, they’re slightly outside of their mandate, anyway, with no other duties to keep them busy in the King’s service currently, and going around the guard is troublesome enough. So stall, it is. Because to hell with letting this poor girl get bound to a worthless excuse for a man who might avoid the noose and merely spend considerable time in the Châtelet.

Unfortunately, when the three of them get wound-up, prudent action doesn't always make an appearance. So Porthos tumbles into the church with his borrowed doublet askew and his curls mussed, a bottle of some toxic brew dangling precariously from his hand. He sings. Loudly, and entirely off-key. Some thieves’ tune about love and loss and fat purses on fat nobles who must not really need them since they’re so _bloody careless_ with them and really, what shows a love for mankind better than helping a poor soul put his money to better use.

He’s obviously making the words up as he goes and Aramis fights the urge to smirk as he hurries in after his bearish friend, hat in hand, making polite apologies as he moves down the aisle.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Pay this man no mind. We are the King’s Musketeers and we will have this matter sorted shortly, we assure you,” Athos calls out from behind them, his voice rather booming when he wants it to be. Aramis joins in.

“Yes, nothing to worry about. All will be well. But, in the _meantime_ , please stay _seated_ ,” he aims pointedly at the father of the bride who is rising angrily from a pew and sputtering complaints. Aramis spares a secretive glance for the bride herself, who looks torn between bafflement and relief. Porthos chooses that moment to swing back in their direction, thunking the half-empty bottle against his friend’s shoulder. 

“Oi,” he barks, somehow managing to sound threatening and chipper in the same breath. Aramis will have to ask how he does that. Later. “Yer interruptin’ my performance!” Porthos drags out the last syllable before wobbling backwards a step and hooking his thumbs into his belt. He misses with one, because of the bottle in his hand, but eventually he’s satisfied with his stance and even holds it for a few seconds before swaying slowly to the right.

“Monsieur,” Aramis chides, reaching out to steady Porthos with both hands. “ _You_ are interrupting marriage vows and that’s a far more grievous offense, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Porthos _giggles_. 

Honestly, Aramis nearly loses it right then and there, and even Athos quietly clears his throat behind them. But somehow they manage not to slip out of their roles and Porthos leans forward to rest forehead to forehead. 

“I _know_ ,” Porthos whispers, in the way drunken people whisper, which really isn’t a whisper so much as a breathy shout. “S’why I was singing a _love_ song, you idiot. Now shhhhhh, lemmie finish, alright.” He straightens and sloppily pats a big, gloved hand over Aramis’ face, which forces his friend to school his expression into insulted chagrin when really all he wants to do is laugh at Porthos’ gall.

“Monsieur. I’m afraid we must insist you leave the church immediately,” Athos chimes in. He’s moved around to Porthos’ back at this point. The larger Musketeer swivels his head before shoving Aramis backwards and stepping out of reach.

“Oh, come on now. Stay back! I’m not harmin’ no one,” Porthos grumbles, raising his hands defensively. He’s starting to shape his body into something resembling a caged tiger, ready to pounce. Aramis watches that powerful frame coil and grimaces in spite of himself. It’s rather unfortunate they didn’t have time to pace out this little sham, because this is probably going to _hurt_.

When Aramis steps forward with the obvious intention of grabbing him by the bicep, Porthos growls in outrage and smacks the reaching hand away. The bottle in his grip is left carelessly on the altar and it tumbles to the side, spilling dark liquid everywhere. Aramis is mildly horrified by this, but they’re a heartbeat away from greater sacrilege, so it seems a moot point. He’ll pay for the damage later.

“Enough!” Athos demands, circling again to trap Porthos between them. That’s their cue. Porthos lowers his head and barrels forward like a bull, his arms encircling Aramis at the waist as he drives them both to the floor. There are gasps and whispers amongst the assembly, but no one is stupid enough to intervene.

With the wind knocked out of him and Porthos shifting to straddle him, Aramis spends a few seconds simply trying to remember what his name is, so he doesn’t have to fake a look of wide-eyed alarm as Porthos rears back, readying to punch him in the face.

Athos kicks Porthos in the shoulder, knocking the seemingly off-balance man off of Aramis and onto his back. He’s quick to recover, though. Hopping to his feet with more dexterity that most would give him credit for. He flexes his fists and paces a short arc while Aramis climbs to his feet. Despite the lurking presence of the man who just put a boot to him, Porthos is fixated on Aramis.

It’s the most inappropriate moment for Aramis to get lost in the predatory gaze leveled at him, what with his beloved hat lying crushed at his feet and dozens of strangers looking on, _in a church no less_ , but then there likely isn’t an appropriate time to realise you’d very much like to fuck your best friend.

Thankfully, Porthos spins away, taking a wild (and yet, easily predicted) swing at Athos, who leaps back a step and shoves Porthos into a nearby statue. Another rumbling roar erupts as his knee collides with stone. That’s going to leave a mark and Aramis winces slightly in sympathy. Porthos turns and charges, all that size and speed making evasive manoeuvres impossible.

The force with which Athos is slammed into a wall forces a grunt out of the man and scatters the people in a nearby pew like startled birds. It’s subtle, but Athos tilts his head and squints at Porthos in warning.

The deviant smile that results is probably not the response he was looking for.

Digging his hands into leather, Porthos swings Athos away from the wall and flings him into Aramis. The two stumble backwards and catch their footing just in time to dodge a flurry of exaggerated blows. Despite the fact that he’s clearly enjoying the theatricality, Porthos never once comes close to actually injuring one of them. It’s a dance, really. Three men, completely in tune with each and what they each bring to a fight, effortlessly making adjustments for Porthos’ pretend state of inebriation. 

That’s not to say they don’t let a few hits land. For _show_ , obviously. Porthos takes a boot to the backside. Aramis gets clipped on the ear with a glancing blow, and so on. Their eyes are fever-bright and they’ve forgotten their audience completely by the time the front doors swing up and Treville strides in.

They freeze in place, Aramis holding Porthos flush against himself with both arms locked around his chest and Athos making a show of rolling up his sleeves, as if he would ever be so dishonourable as to punch a restrained man in the gut.

Okay, maybe he would. Given the right circumstances. There was that one time, with the Red Guard who made the mistake of calling Porthos a flea-infested mongrel--A story for another time, perhaps.

Treville hovers in the doorway for a moment, looking as if he has stumbled in upon them all playing cards without a stitch of clothing on: in other words, shocked…and _yet_ , not so much. 

With a long-suffering sigh, he storms down the aisle and says something quickly and quietly to Athos. From there, it’s an abrupt end to a ridiculous scene: a flustered and shouting Monsieur Dubé is taken away by the two Musketeers Treville brought with him and their Captain gives the three of them a pointed look before nodding towards the mess they’ve made.

“Sort this out and get back to the garrison. _Apparently_ , you don’t have enough to keep you busy, so you can take over for the stable hands for the rest of the week.” Porthos groans and Aramis can already hear his good-natured complaining now. _Horse shit and lots of it, Aramis. You’re lucky I enjoyed that, you know_. Mustering up his best apologetic smile, Aramis bows his head to his commanding officer and goes to speak with the priest who, as far as Aramis can tell, has been standing in a corner with his hands over his eyes through the entire proceedings.

\-----

Later, when they’re shucking hay into stalls and Aramis can feel the bruises starting to smart, he flings a forkful of hay at Porthos.

“Did you have to squash the hat?” he frowns petulantly. One might even say he pouted, but Aramis would remind such a reckless individual that Musketeers do not _pout_.

Porthos laughs shamelessly and flicks his eyebrows upwards. “Technically, it was your arse that squashed the hat.”

Athos rolls his eyes at them both, but there’s a ghost of a smirk haunting his mouth. Aramis calls that one the _'whose wife did I pilfer in a past life to deserve you two'_ look. 

Or, alternately, the _'Athos'_.

**Author's Note:**

> New headcanon: Aramis and Porthos sit around naming Athos' expressions during downtime. Porthos isn't very good at it. He's _hopelessly bad at it_ when he's drunk. ('Whatcha mean we can't call it The Glare?') Aramis just shakes his head and refills Porthos' glass until all his friend has to offer is that big stupid grin.


End file.
